The Journal of Zexari
by Wedjat Iaret
Summary: Zexari is a Dark Elf, gifted with Vampirism, and loyal member of the Dark Brotherhood and Thieves' Guild. He is delightfully insane and this only increases when he explores A Strange Door. This is his story, through his eyes.
1. Journal Entry 1

Frostfall 17 Era 3, anno 433 ~8:00AM

Curse the dawn and its burning touch.

I set out with the hope of beating the sun to New Sheoth, but it is clear to me now that I am clear-headed just with how much folly I executed this plan. New Sheoth lies upon the easternmost point of the Isles! And that accursed, wretched, but lovely Harbinger of Dawn sets its gaze there before any other place.

Foolishness is death, and I had best learn quickly to end this silliness.

For how long have I lived in this state as Messenger of the Night? It must have been at least a month by now. A most busy month, indeed - but a whole and wholesome full month, at that. I stand now in the chamber of the Madgod. I do not know for how long I have dwelt in his realm, but I have spent a fair portion of my new fledgling vampire life here. By choice, of course. The exquisite duality of Mania and Dementia as they complement each other and bring a harmonious contrast to the landscape is just too compelling to resist. Fair Tamriel would seem wretched in comparison; but it is not fair to compare the two lands, for they are worlds apart in all their meaning.

I look around at the artifacts that give testimony to my time here thus far. A simple Focus Crystal, used for attuning the resonance of the land with the protective instinct of its Creator; the Chalice of Reversal, the saving grace of a most mad pleasure-loving man, gone perhaps before his time; a helmet of one of those putrid scum, a member of the Knights of Order who have disgraced my Lord's lands with their heretical speak and truly drab wardrobe; a replica of the head of the Gatekeeper of the Twin Doors of Madness whom I slew so long ago to gain favor and entry to this land; a makeshift Inquisitor's Cage wherein dances the Lightning that dwelt a time ago within the bones of my enemies and the enemies of Syl (foolish, I was, to aid that serpent!); the blood of Thadon, former Duke of Mania, on whose Throne I now sit (or would if his Court did not still object); and the Helmet of a most wonderful Dark Lady that now sits wreathed in a pure and beautiful Flame.

Haskill takes note of my appearance. I cannot fault him for his curiosity; how often does one get the opportunity to not only dwell near, but act as servant and aide to a full Vampire in his glory and grace? Yet my pale skin still is flaking from the burning sensation of my morning journey. The Sun would do away with me swiftly in this form, and I was fortitous in that I arrived just shortly after dawn (as the change from "Duskblade" to "Dawnblade" in this relic that I carry still showed), but the damage was still horrific. I think I shall take a long rest before setting out on my journey tonight, if I get the chance. That should allow me sufficient time and silent solitude to mull over the past few days. I seek strength, as always. Many who knew my former form can attest to the fact that I was a lover of the rejeuvinating and reviving powers of Dawn and the Sun, before I took on this form. But I took it on voluntarily, with the knowledge that I would have to eschew my former habits, due to this lust for Power. Whether it is a Gift or a Curse, this all-pervading drive, I cannot say. Surely it would do to dwell a bit on the cosmic irony of this Lust or Greed overtaking me as I stand in the Realm of Madness Himself.

And it is Him that inspires the sad symphony played upon my heartstrings this morn. Sheogorath, Lord of Madness and the Twin Realms of Mania and Dementia, is lost to us, today. Not by Death - that immortal hand could never grasp the concept of this man, as it deals too much in absolutes and finalitude - but by Order, the sick kindred of all things Good and changing in this world. Life cannot exist by Order. The world itself cannot, it is antithetical to its structure! Chaos is the song of all things living, and I will have the opportunity to attest to it in my day. Madness is fundamentally the Chaos of the Mind given shape.

But I digress. I will seek his Staff out tonight, when my strength is with me, after I have had the opportunity to rest, and I will seek to carry on his Legacy as best as I can.

Even if that means facing off with the Man - or God - whom I have loved, in a way.

The way of the universe shall be done.

For the Madgod!


	2. Journal Entry 2

20 Frostfall, Era 3 Anno 433

I am Him!

So simple. So wonderful. Us, two, in one, and two, again!

Duke of Mania, reigning upon the Demented Throne!

Becoming Prince of Madness!

It is all so sensible, is it not?

Apotheosis. The word evokes a beautiful glee from me. A manic one, perhaps?

I am Him, and He is Me, and I am Divinity, or something near enough it. Daedric powers. Knowledges and arcane secrets swirling within me, things I never knew, things I could never have hoped to understand with my old Self... but the Staff is the source of a wellspring of joyous insanity. Chaos. Chaos, to complement Order.

He is not lost, for His essence is within me. We are joined, one being, mad, and happy to be so.

This is, of course, to say nothing of the various "benefits" my stature grants me. I have no interest in such mundanities, except in as much as laughter is becoming of a Madgod.

Mad dog.

I am wealthy in power, control over this realm, which I delight in not because it benefits me in Mortal ways, but benefits the joy and glee for the chaos of Madness that I now hold at my core. The staff, or perhaps He, or perhaps my experiences, or something similar, has altered Me fundamentally.

I do not object.

The world is made of strange patterns, and patternless is my thought, unless One would examine it to the point of madness himself. Himself. To know the Gift is to know Him is to know Me is to Ascend fundamentally.

He Changes Every Mind He Touches With His Gift

And it is a joy and delight to know this state!

To know it intimately, beyond the power of any mortal. Each one He, I have touched with the Gift is changed and ascended to beyond normal minds, but they do not have the Power to take it with individual controls. One must be Strong to Utilize Madness, to shape with it, to create. It is not solely destructive as fools would claim. It is not solely creative, either, very evidently. It is the union and joining of Mania and Dementia, to stay up late nights painting a landscape that haunts one's vision, to collapse in fear of what lurks within one's creation after.

In short, it is true functionality. It is Enlightenment. I am Enlightenment, for I am Madness. This is how Daedra are. They...I...we...

We are the Essence of our portention.

That which we preach we Are and we cannot be destroyed, Therefore.

Try as we might.

His memories fuse with mine and our concepts of our Selves are unified. I am Daedra, and yet I am not. The Daedra are Aedra, to me, and yet, still, we are separated. All things are one yet they are not. As are Mania and Dementia. As are Madness and Sanity, Chaos and Order.

The despicable is what I love. I am mad for it, and delightedly so!

Jygallag is dead yet I keep him alive by being the counter to his Being

He reigns and yet he is defeated, and the same applies to me! I sit on my Throne and ponder my time, and I cannot abandon this joy. Perhaps I am weighted a bit heavily to Mania, but what fun is Dementia to write? Dementia will lurk silently and menacingly in my mind to myself all alone to prey on me to prey on me alone as the joyful fire and warmth of my hunger is all that it needs to feast upon to extinguish to seek to extinguish but never cold enough to truly counter it I am two forces combined.

And I would not have it any either way.

If I try, if I work against all my instincts, the Energy of this Realm, all of my memories, and act fully against what I set out to become - or at least to Know, not Knowing I would Become - then I can clarify myself to duller minds.

But let's save that for Tamriel. I am in my realm, world of the Madgod, and I will enjoy it!

Do I know what will happen in a fair few centuries? No. Will I die? I am Vampire! I am Strong! I am everlasting! I cannot Die as such. Will the cycle continue? Will He leave me? He cannot. I cannot. Because He is Me. I will live on and on, forever, between the two realms of Tamriel and the Isles

And I imagine I will stick to the Isles, when time has gone by, for what is there to cherish in that other, dull and boring, realm?

But since I have not yet reached eternity perhaps I shall continue aiding my Brothers in Shadow back there.

Not back home.

This Throne is my home now.

I am Sheogorath!

I am Madness!

I live, forever!


	3. Journal Entry 3

Blood.

Blood will be spilt, blood will be drunk. Blood out of them, and into me.

Lucien is dead.

I don't know what to do anymore. My brother, my brother, even if only for a short time, dead. Traitorous fiends have killed my brother and my pain over it prohibits me from even clearing his name. I am forced to go with them to meet the Night Mother who could not, did not save him. I am forced to band with those who murdered my brother. I know I should not blame them, I know I should blame only the traitor who switched my orders, who set him up for this, but what can I do? How can I control the desire for vengeance, the bloodlust so natural to a Vampire such as me? How can I control the blinding fury and blinding tears that well up within me? Death is the only solution, revenge is my only comfort...

There is a party responsible for this, and I will hunt him down and end him in the most painful way possible. Night Mother guide me, Dread Lord Sithis stand with me. I will go on, I will join my remaining Family, in order to put an end to the breath within this fool's lungs. No man can mess with the Dark Brotherhood. I do not respect his ailment as an excuse. I know Madness. I am Madness. Madness would not do this!

I can barely see my own thoughts through the red fog of anger, through the mist of his blood and my own - my pain that clouds my vision, my nostrils, my mouth and my lungs, I breathe in seething hatred and it sears my insides, but it is my only salvation from the lonely darkness that would end any light within my decrepit heart. Dementia is Mania. Mania is Dementia. Hatred is Pain.

I don't care if I knew him for a short time, a delicate business such as the one we shared creates lifetime bonds. In shadow we walked, separated from the "civlization" that isn't civilized enough to put an end to the things that plague them, yet we walked together within that silent darkness. Darkness yields to a painful red light; pain yields to Hatred again. So the cycle continues, and I am subject to it.

I will learn the traitor's name, I will learn of his kin, and I will destroy them. Any creature still living with even the slightest connection will be slain. The bloodline represented by this wretched fiend will be destroyed, the light and fire of hope for self-perpetuation extinguished. Hatred leads to Destruction. I am grateful that I am already mad, for it offers me some salvation from a worse mental fate. I can watch these cycles happen, content in my enlightened knowledge that each thing that happens is merely one, and I need not worry about becoming more than that one.

But that comfort does not mean I will not go on a savage rampage. In time, I will collect myself, and conduct myself with behavior that is more appropriate for one who walked with Lucien Lachance as his Brother in Shadows - but only when the hurricane of blood and daggers within me settles, to become a pointed arrow, coated with the poison of hatred and destructive willpower. I will end him. I will end his father, I will end any brothers or cousins he possesses or ever possessed. No one even associated with him shall be spared from my wrath, the wrath of not only a member of the Dark Brotherhood, but the wrath of a Daedric Lord who delights in the torture of others as long as it is entertaining.

And I will make it so.

So drink, shall I, drink in the wine of their blood, to feed me! I will gorge myself upon them, until I never again feel the need to feed once more! And I will walk in the burning sunlight that warms me and represents the full force of my hatred.

And I will love it. To walk in day, forsaking the shadow because my Brother cannot walk therein with me.

Love, Hatred, Mania, and Dementia, all Madness, each and every one of them, an aspect of the same, an aspect of me.

They will all die.

Any who oppose the wrath of Sithis and the Love of Lucien Lachance will die, by my own hand. I will feast on their blood, and it shall nourish me.

And it will be Good.


	4. Journal Entry 4

12th Sun's Dusk, Era 3 Anno 433

Night Mother, Hear me Hear You.

You who provide the means with which I can sate my own bloodlust, Unholy Matron, part of me, I am grateful for Your blessing.

The pain in me at the loss of my Brother has not yet passed away, but it is with his blood that our relationship has been forged. In the passing of my Brother, I gained a stronger connection to my Mother, and as Listener, I will do Her bidding to further avenge my Brother. I am blessed with the tools necessary to acquire the blood which fuels me; I am blessed with a path of Night and of Death. It is all I could ever ask for. "Sanguine, My Brother..."

And yet it is not my Family which makes me an assassin. I was a killer before I ever joined them, before my dear and late Brother Vicente Valtieri gave me the Gift...that is how one joins the Family, after all. It is nice to reflect upon. To this day, I do not remember who I slew. Their identity is inconsequential and irrelevant to me. Perhaps if I could remember, I would be able to send a gift of thanks to their next of kin, for providing such an ample scapegoat for my entrance to an everlasting Family, to one that will never die.

Unlike their own.

But that sort of cruelty is unwarranted and inelegant. Even if they are of the lowest rung of society (being so weak that I could so easily pick them off, even before the tutelage of my Brethren), and even if they are utterly unimportant to me, I know what it is like to lose Kindred. It is, of course, slightly different; both kinds of families are bound together in Blood, although in very different ways...and in my heart I feel that my own Family has stronger ties, for it is our nature as assassins that binds us together. The blood we spill, rather than the blood within us. A family of dark, malign, bloodthirsty, and sophisticated folk. It is truly an honor to be one of them, and to be their Listener, at the feet of the Unholy Matron as she whispers in my ear. The chaos within my mind, from my own Nature and from Her own bloodlust, is poignant and beautiful.

I look forward to training the young of the sanctuary, although I must admit that the few recruits that my dear Sister has thus far acquired do not seem like the best candidates for our Family yet. But that is not my place to decide, of course, and they shall grow. I will, however, take a fair amount of malevolent joy in scaring the poor little things...they shall one day understand that fear merely gets in the way of one's job, of one's feeding. Perhaps some of them will even then desire and deserve the Gift. It will be my honor and my pleasure to pass it on. As much of a Child of Dawn I always was, I am also a Hunter of Night. I've said it before, and I shall stick to it. I seek power, agility, grace, and blood (oh yes, even before I was in this state!), and this form gives me the means to acquire all of those things. Being among the most vile of creatures, to our backwards and weak world, is so delightful! Lesser creatures simply have no concept of fun, or anything of importance!

But enough of Death, and such pleasures, and onto more practical matters! I have returned to my pilfering of treasures, lifting them from the hands and pockets and homes of those who do not deserve them, to "redistribute" them to more trustworthy hands. Like my own. The Thieves' Guild does not give me such a strong feeling of Family, but it is always nice to have some people with whom I can share the joy of Gold and treasure, without being judged by people who believe that property "belongs" to anyone but those who lust after it most, and that "ownership" is an immutable and innate state. All things are driven by the hunger and thirst for power, status, and trinkets of treasure. It is in this way that I can respect my fellow Guildmates; they must have some sort of hunger in order to have attained the status that they now enjoy. And, of course, the Gray Fox must be the most "hungry" of them all...how I long after the chance to meet him, but patience! All in due time. I am certain he will not be able to ignore my graceful-fingered prowess for much longer...and when he catches sight of me, I vow to never leave his favor.

And I vow to surpass him.


	5. Journal Entry 5

19th Sun's Dusk, Era 3 Anno 433

~ 6:00 PM

Hahaha! Fools, fools everywhere, they surround me! How joyous it is to bathe in their blood; how I adore tormenting my Earthly subjects. Life as a Madgod is never drab, even when I'm running off and doing other's errands.

First things first: Hieronymus Lex is now properly taken care of, at least in the eyes of the Guild. Personally I would prefer a swift blade to the throat with a "token" taken for later amusement (rather like the case of the most charming Phillida), but oh well. I admire the craftiness with which the Guild has acted in this case, I must confess. They are my brethren in Shadow, but not in blood; in the eyes of Nocturnal, not those of Sithis. I can respect our differences, as long as they are mindful of my own preferences for as to how to solve my problems. Although the underlings are perhaps a bit hasty with declarations on the "value" of human life (what gives them that value, truly, but action, and worth through contribution? Ruthlessness, determination, and wealth of mind are what give a person the breath of life - otherwise, killing them should be without consequence, truly, as it is merely returning them to their proper place, beneath our feet!), I have a strong conviction in my heart somehow that the Gray Fox and I will eventually see more eye-to-eye on these matters.

In other matters, I acquired a new toy recently...apparently my "predecessor" (can one really call Him that? He lives on now, in me, contemporaneous and not preceding!) set up a most delightful prank for some poor Khajiit in the southwestern village of Border Watch. Sad, really. I rather admire the Khajiit, we have very similar methods of solving problems, I have heard. (And their fangs would be so suited for the piercing of human necks. But I Tigress - digress, my apologies.) But the story is just so wonderfully humorous that it most be recounted without regret, which paints it a most unflattering color!

I was wandering in the forests when my heart told me to take a turn down a small path into a certain grove north of Leyawiin. When I reached my destination, I was at once delighted and yet not surprised to find an Idol to Sheogorath - that is to say, Myself! - in the center of it. Although this was unexpected to that part of me which is perhaps dreadfully drab and "orderly", the Madness within me recognized it at once, and I suspect that this subconscious (I suppose?) knowledge of this Shrine is what drove me on that path then. Not being in any way otherwise preoccupied (or perhaps desiring to avoid my existing obligations), I questioned the nearby "devout" for what they presumed to be a suitable offering, and was told to return with some yarn, a head of lettuce, and a lesser soul gem. Esoteric, but fitting, I thought. So I gathered up the materials, knelt before the Shrine, and said some prayers that I felt were befitting One (Two!) such as Me. Of course, as I was not on my Throne to answer my own Supplications, my dear Haskill decided to intervene as a sort of Divine Secretary. I really should tell him not to do that. It must upset my poor Faithful so much to hear such drabness on the other end of such communications. But he does have a style all his own, even I must admit; of course its fabulousness nowhere near even approaches my own, but he does a fine job of assisting my stylistic decisions when I am too otherwise focused to manage My own most important affairs, like wardrobe and decorative choices.

These are matters of highest welfare concerns in my Kingdom, you see. As there is not a lot else to be worried about.

Either way, he informed me that my "Predecessor" (Subconscious, perhaps? Consciousness? Simply myself? Like it matters!) had an arrangement that he needed taken care of by a mortal. Immediately upon his reminding me of this, of course, I immediately recalled setting up the affair, although I don't know why it never came to mind earlier. Memories are a most troublesome thing to fiddle about with, but better than nothing, perhaps. I do have such fond memories. Like the meddling about with that Khajiit village!

After these most necessary preparations were made, I traveled to the small village of Border Watch and had a chat with their Prophet. I needed to utilize a bit of my otherworldly charms in order to get anywhere in our conversations, but after falling prey to my sway (as all men naturally and inevitably do) he confided in me a tale of an Apocalyptic prophecy of most dire significance to the Khajiit. Naturally, after this show of deep and strong bonding with him, I felt it necessary to utilize this most important part of this culture to completely terrorize the lot of them.

No one said being a Madgod was easy, or nice. What it IS is fun!

The fools stored a most potent and pungent sort of cheese behind a flimsy lock and called it a "museum". If all museums were like that, I would never have to work an honest day in my life again.

I have never worked an "honest" day in my life and I never will again, but, you know, that detracts from the saying.

I took it, and tossed it in a cooking pot, so that an infestation of rats would charge in straight for it. (I love rats. They're such sweet creatures. Befitting one of my stature.) Of course, the Prophet saw it necessary to use rat poison to quell this plague. I suppose Khajiit divinities don't QUITE have the necessary power to "interfere" with an infestation of vermin. This is why I am superior!

I took up the poison and fed it to the village's herd of sheep. They died immediately, as the poison was potent enough that I was slightly suspicious as to its true intentions. Everybody is always out to stab your back, and the best you can do to watch it is to do away with everybody before they get the chance to meddle. It has to be true; I'm alive, is it not so? Thus, I am right, and superior, once more! In any case, this appeared to be their sole source of food, despite there being a measly six sheep in the entire herd. They probably would have gone hungry tomorrow, so no regrets there! Regrets are a dreadful color. I prefer bright ones when I paint my stories. Words are tools of creation - you can lie with them most beautifully! - and deserve colors befitting the best of paintings. Which is the bright ones. They taste like cheese, of course. See the golden hues!

After these events, with the lot of the town screaming around me about how they were doomed for food, as their entire population of sheep and cheese (what else do cats eat? Bats? Now that is truly preposterous.) had been swiftly obliterated, I sat calmly in the center of the town and looked skyward.

Once again, I was both prepared for and completely surprised by what happened next.

SEND IN THE HOUNDS!

SEND THEM WITH FLAMES!

SEND THEM TO BURN AWAY THE DULLNESS OF LIFE, BARKING AT GRAY TONES AND REPLACING THEM WITH FIERY HUES!

Oh dear, I did get a bit carried away there, didn't I?

But that is, of course, what happened.

A pack of flaming hounds rained down from the sky, enough to feed the Imperial City's entire seemingly-invisible orphan population for a week, if they scrounged enough!

Dogs! And cats! It was raining dogs, and cats! Well, just the dogs, but the cat fur was flying around me as they beat their breasts in agony at the sheer terror of what had transpired before their very slit-pupil eyes!

Leaving them to their mayhem (as much as I hate leaving such a fun scene!) I returned to my Shrine, calmly chatting with Haskill about the hell I had raised, and he finally returned a most beloved toy of mine, which I was both surprised to receive and had been expecting all alone.

Wabbajack.

WABBAJACK.

Wabbajack.

All things bend to the will of the Madgod, eventually!

Even the forms of my enemies!

ESPECIALLY the forms of my allies! AHAHA!

And this, again, is why I am superior.

Fools surround me; they perish; I laugh! I am Madness, and I am happy.


	6. Journal Entry 6

23rd Sun's Dusk, Era 3 Anno 433

More fools, as is the usual in this realm. I miss the Isles. At least there, I could use the fools to amuse myself. I can do that here too, but not with nearly as much power - and not in nearly as amusing ways, or without any meddling...

I did destroy the minds of the Devout at my Shrine, though, of course. It was simply a gift - the gift of providing top-quality entertainment to their Lord.

In my spare time, I have been busy investigating the assassination of the Emperor. I delivered the Amulet of Kings to the Priest and he told me where to find the bastard brat, a few months late (better late than never, though, eh?). Despite my misgivings about the kid, I traveled out to Kvatch to see him for myself and deliver the Most Joyful (for him, not for the land in general...) news that he was Heir to the Imperial Throne. The sheer boredom of the task depressed me. No one in this place knows how to have any fun.

Of course, when I got to Kvatch, it was a different story entirely. All hell had broken out. Literally!

A portal to one of the more dreadful, but interesting, realms of Oblivion had opened. Although my weaker self was never much of a Scholar of Daedric Lore, the Greater within me recognized it immediately as Mehrunes Dagon's plane, a land of Flame that, ironically enough, exists in a perpetual state of death and rebirth, a cycle that would be more iconic of a Lord of Creation than one of Destruction. It must drive him mad. I giggle about it to myself at night; knowing things like this are happening to other Princes just shows that something is right in this Universe of ours!

In any case, I figure that it must be that madness from the Cycle of regenerating souls that drove him to seek out a new realm. After some "investigative work" that consisted of saving a bunch of meaningless lives and a brief vacation in a more chaotic world, and after meeting Martin himself (a most dreadfully drab and boring figure, the Empire will be in ever-so-poor a state!), I discovered that it was indeed a cult of Dagon himself that was behind the assassination of the Emperor - the Mythic Dawn. Pawns in a battle spanning two separate Dimensions who think themselves something grand. Their ignorance is sickening to me, but the fierce devotion they show to a figurehead who would sooner see all of them dead at his feet than kneeling is testament to a Mania most beautiful, and their paranoia towards any outsider (they attack me with intent to kill on sight, it seems, after infiltrating them...!) is perfectly exemplary of a Demented mind! It is so inspirational, in fact, that upon entering their shrine to Lord Dagon (Brother Dagon, perhaps? It was quite an interesting story, that infiltration, but another time for recounting it, perhaps.) I thought for a while about eschewing the favor of the Blades and instead remaining with the cultists to bring Dagon fully manifest into this Realm that he may conquer it, because it would be FAR more interesting a show than the typical imperial politics (which offend me on a very personal level, I find).

But there's no one interesting to madden in a world where everyone's dead.

So, then, to meddle with Dagon Himself, I shall interfere with His plans to the best of my ability in this mortal form. When His frustration is most apparent, I shall then reveal myself to Him, I think, in My true form, complete with resplendence. The look on his face could keep me laughing for centuries, when I imagine it.

In the interest of chaotic fun, above all else, then, I am decreeing a personal vendetta against not only Dagon but ALL Daedric Lords, for the sheer joy of it! I shall visit their shrines and gain their favor in my mortal form - because every Daedra seeks a strong champion, and who is stronger than a Daedra in disguise? - and acquire their personal artifacts, then employ them against them in the most beautiful acts of sabotage ever carried out by any within Tamriel. (Before they do it to me first! Always watchful, always alert. It saves lives.)

Of course, I wouldn't want the relationships between us to be utterly spoiled; it's all in good fun...to assert myself over all my kindred. Not for any reason than the joy of competition, and to drive them all stark-raving mad in the process. One day they'll regret ever "giving birth" to me.

And then I will invite them to my court, because to feel so strongly against one so powerful, is madness, plain and simple. And they will love me all over again when they see the antics therein!

A court full of Daedric servants - then, onto the Divines...


	7. Journal Entry 7

25th Sun's Dusk, era 3 anno 433

My land is my pleasure.

Lesser men have no understanding of why this is so. Their frail intellects cause them to conflate Chaos with nothing but Death and Destruction. They cannot see why a Prince of Madness would desire any life to triumph, to flourish, and to blossom, in this world. They look upon my land and completely ignore Mania, and miss the ample Flora and Fauna in Dementia, instead choosing only to focus on the gloom of the land. They think the only use for fire and passion is in the destruction of all that others hold dear.

There is a reason they are fools.

There is no joy in a world without Life, for without life, there is no spark of intellect to beguile, to twist and drive mad, showing it my point of view. There is no death without life, and the fear of death is a healthy thing. There is no drunken revelry, no perception, no concept of the world itself, without a life within that world that can observe it and understand it. My world is beautiful, with skies whose blue hue is at once representative of Water and of Lightning - and reds, of the blood and passion that are expended in the creative process.

The servants of my land are not simply a "sad coincidence" of the life within. Through a process that is so complex that trying to visualize it would drive a human completely insane, the creative seed of the beginning yields them. Through Storm and Sunlight, my world changes and grows. It is the fear of death which causes things to adapt. An orange flame of the will to live, and a blue flame of the fear of that privilege being taken away.

Every Daedric Lord has His own realm. The traits of this realm are evocative of our nature. Mehrunes Dagon has a fiery realm with air that carries the acrid smoke of the burning bodies of his servants. Molag Bal's realm is one of cages and traps, where any outsider who dares to venture in is captured and tormented to show them their place. Hircine's is a labyrinthine forest where strangers either hunt the creatures within down, or are hunted by the inhabitants - the game sought after is a question not only of flesh but of destination, hence the maze. Hermaeus Mora possesses a library beyond any other full of forbidden and arcane texts. And so on.

My realm is simple. It is life, and it is death. It is complacency, and it is paranoia. One would call Me "mad", of course, but it is those who live in the extremes of Mania or Dementia, with no balance, who are truly deranged. I take the pleasures of life as they come while respecting the inherent dangers of being a living, breathing creature in a world that is out to get each and every one of us. It is beauty, and it is pain, and it is manifest in the soul of every single human, as both sides represent the extremes of emotion and expression of which they are capable of. The "sane" are those who eschew both realms and stunt themselves in Greyness. The deranged are those who think one side can render the other obsolete. The balanced are my Blessed.

If one should wish to find my favored ones within Tamriel, it is to the greatest but perhaps most overlooked artists towards whom they must turn their eye. Human society clamors over those who create works most exemplary of Mania or of Dementia, but never seem to acknowledge their existence together, or their codependent nature. They proclaim as "great" the artists who can channel the spirit of Mania when they could simply walk that side of my realm for even a minute and bring back countless artifacts of sheer perfection for that archetype. It is the same for the Demented. These artists are hacks, without talent.

Only those who have the eye to see both at once and understand that they are one can truly claim any talent, or any favor. But it is they who are seen as "mad"! Madder than he who stays up for seventy hours at a time crafting a "perfect piece" that is simply a painting of a view from the Northern side of my Castle! Madder than the one who remains silent about his work until it is released to great proclamation for fear of thievery and murder, when all he has produced is a window onto the banquet hall of Dementia! To isolate these elements is nothing, and to live in only one of them when there are so many more treasures that I have given the world is foolishness and insanity. Only He who can unite these aspects into one thing is great, because he succeeds in creating that which even I have not created, except in my manifestation as Myself! Because there is never anything that is two things at once - besides one as Great, as Powerful, and as "Mad" as me.

See, then, that I am Madness incarnate, and yet fully capable, far moreso than those held up as examples of insanity to this world. Why? How?

That is the Secret of Sheogorath. I am the unification of the Aspects of Madness - and the product of these things is greater than either one in isolate. Maybe one day there will be another mortal who can see this.

In any case, returning to the question of my Daedric kindred...

I do not know how many realize the secrets of each other's realms. I suspect very few, for as much as many of them puff themselves up about their knowledge and power, they are blind to anything other than their own quarrels. They see only One thing at once, when Vision Twofold, Vision Mad, is the secret of success.

Mock Madness all they will; soon they will find themselves in my Court, also mad, but as a mere imitation, and as Insane Imperfection.


	8. Journal Entry 8

26th Sun's Dusk, era 3 anno 433

I found myself in the nicest little cottage today.

It caught my eye whilst I was travelling just slightly south of Cheydinhal (the name of that town will carry painful memories for me forever, I imagine...). It was nestled in the woods, with a golden statue of a woman reaching outwards, as if beckoning me towards her, in the front yard. In her hands she had a length of rope, double-knotted in the center. I am not certain if this meant anything, but I was transfixed by the beauty of her, and drew nearer to the cottage to examine it. In the front there are three little bushes (of what kind, I am not sure), with a lovely bench nestled in between two of them. In back of it, I found a small pasture that would fit Shadowmere perfectly, and an anvil on a table for smithing efforts, as well as a small patch of lavender. The cottage itself lies along a main path, next to a lake just outside of the city, on a hill just above the small village they call Harlun's Watch. The inhabitants of the village itself are not very interesting folk, but it is a nice area, all the same. Strangely for such a beautiful cottage in such a good environment, I saw no sign of any inhabitants. Thinking that this could be good for me, I carefully tried the handle of the door, pushing it open very slowly. I peered inside, crouching and ready to run in case there was actually someone inside who did not take too kindly to the interruption of their evening supper. But I found no one.

The cottage was laid out fine, with excellent furniture all-around, but the furniture did not show any signs of wear or recent usage, and there was no food. There were a fair few chests, none of them locked but all of them empty - save for one. When I opened this one chest, I was greeted by the briefly-blinding (to my Vampiric eyes) glimmer of gold. No coins were within, but I found seventeen small statues.

Each of the statues depicts a Daedric Prince. I recognized easily such ones as Azura and Molag Bal, although the faces of some of them were less familiar to me. Still, the Lord within me knew them immediately, and smiled deeply when I found my own Visage represented amongst the group. The only member missing was Jyggalag - and I certainly did not mind this omission. He can keep to himself, for all I am concerned over. Maybe one day I will enslave him - he would make a fine member of my court. I would make him wear the most wonderful, ridiculous getups, and parade him as a jester before the members of my land. It warms my heart to imagine. But my crusade against my kindred is for later times.

I was slightly worried by this, fearing it may be some act against me on the part of the Universe. It is a basic fact that the image of a thing represents its nature, and houses a part of its spirit. In essence, these statues ARE my brethren. Fifteen other Daedra, surrounding me, looking upon me, knowing my every move? Not the nicest thing to think about when one is hatching plots against the lot of them. Paranoia is healthy, after all. It keeps you alive. However, despite my nature of Dementia, I decided to walk a bit in the realm of Mania instead.

After considering this idea for a short time, I smiled, and resolved to utilize these gifts, whether blessings or curses, for myself. I arranged all of the statues in rows, with none of them greater or equal to another (despite how much I truly wished to arrange them all around me!), on the dresser of the cottage, and tried my best to play the part of an oblivious mortal, wondering aloud to myself about the cottage and the statues. I can feel that none of the others knows of my plot - some other force has arranged both of these variables together that some bumbling fool would stumble right in there without the knowledge of the power of these artifacts. I will, then, for them, play the part of this bumbling fool, for a little while. It saddens me some to see myself reduced to a jester before the ones whom I seek to see kneeling before me in New Sheoth, but all things come in time. I will use this cottage as a base of operations, while appealing to the Daedra in the form of that fool at their Shrines as well. But nothing of my true self will be kept in there. As far as I can feel, the others still do not know that the Shivering Isles stand strong, far from the presence of order. I know that they keep their distance from Jyggalag, and I know that he is too weakened by my defeat of him to approach them either. I have placed wards on the Isles to make it appear as if the lands have been destroyed, and are currently "missing", while the cycle of Madness and Order continues. Ha! If they only realized they could never defeat Sheogorath. I am within all things, already! My gift is apparent on Tamriel, despite the boring day-to-day things that go on in that world.

While I keep my kindred deluded as to my whereabouts or identity, I will begin scouting THEM out, and eventually plotting against them, amassing the power necessary to bring them to their knees before me.

It warms my heart to see such folly as me.


End file.
